It Was No Ether Party

In my childhood, every Sunday after church my father and I would go to my grandparents' house for a visit. My dad would promise we'd only be there for an hour, but it always rolled into two or three, every one of which moved rainy-afternoon slow.

I'd complain in the car on the way there, sulk and scuff my shoes on the way up the sidewalk, then fantasize about all other sorts of Sunday afternoon activities: climbing trees with my friend Bridget, practicing dance routines for Star Search with my friend Amanda and my sister, or even vegging out to Nickelodeon. Pretty much everything sounded better than spending a Sunday stuck in an old person's house.

Although they were only in their 60s, their life felt much more antiquated; perhaps it was my grandmother's curious English accent (she was raised in Nebraska) or the full suit of armor that stood at the end of the hallway or the trundle bed in the room next to the library that smelled like cedar and old books.

My grandparents would force their old-timey entertainment on me – making me read Louisa May Alcott or play a few games of Yahtzee or Boggle or Black Jack. Other times I would be compelled to find other sources of entertainment – working the pedals of the ancient Singer machine, encapsulating myself in said trundle bed until someone came to find me, or breathing as hard as possible in my grandpa's lung capacity machine until I was on the verge of passing out.

It's taken nearly twenty years to come to appreciate the quietness that filled the Sunday afternoons of my childhood. Twenty years and weekends that are now filled with conference calls.